


One, Two, Three, Four

by Katie (katieandsav)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Second Person, katie's shit, pretentious metaphors everywhere, the character death is the canon one lol, yeah man idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:03:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieandsav/pseuds/Katie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam fell in love with Gabriel in four stages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One, Two, Three, Four

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so i had to write a ~600 word essay for english and i thought "why not sabriel" so this happened  
> bit over the top because i had to conceal the fact that this was gay fanfiction but the prompt was "first impressions aren't always right"

_One—_    
You are two-dimensional. You are another brick in the wall. You mean nothing.

 _Two—_    
You are smug, you are cocky. You’re trying to hurt me—or help me. I can’t tell yet.   
(Nor do I want to be able to)   
(Thinking of you is dangerous.)   
(I need to stop before I get hurt.)   
But you have golden eyes—they’re the colour of whisky, I realise, as I swirl it in my glass.   
The alcohol tastes like anger as it slips down my throat.

 _Three—_    
You’re not who you said you are. You’ve lied to me, yet I can’t bring myself to feel hurt because I understand—you may be so much more than human, you may be bright and burning with the life that shines in those whisky eyes of yours as you tell me your story (as you allow the alkaline, dreaded words to fall off your tongue), but you are still flesh and bones and blood.   
Flesh can be torn; bones can be broken; blood can be spilled.   
And, darling, how you’ve been ripped to pieces.   
Ripped to pieces yourself as you tried to sew together a shattered vase, running when you found your needle could not pierce the porcelain.   
Those shards still haunt you now, embedded in the soles of your feet—you leave bloodied footprints wherever you go. You’ve given up trying to mop up the crimson liquid before it stains: now, you grind your feet into the gravel to spill more than pathetic smudges of red because you want the entire world to know you were here and that you exist. You refuse to be disregarded yet again.   
You sit on a throne of your own arrogant smiles and false words and  ~~I love you.~~    
I love you.   
 _I love you._

 _Four—_    
You are three-dimensional.   
Corpses are three-dimensional, even if they’re empty of life. I know this because my tears roll down your cheeks as if they were your own.   
You always did have a problem with listening—   
(“ _Keep quiet, I’m trying to work._ ”   
“ _What on earth could be more interesting than talking to yours truly?_ ”   
And I would tell you that whatever was at hand may not have been interesting, but it was important. You would tell me that life was short and I shouldn’t waste it on menial things of supposed importance. That decadence and excitement existed for a reason; that rules were meant to be broken.   
I would hush you with a chaste kiss and a promise to finish up what I was doing as quickly as I could.)   
—but I’m not smiling at your refusal to lift your lids and show me those golden eyes again. In fact, I’m screaming at you. Screaming at you to wake up, to wake up, dammit, and to stop playing your tricks because they aren’t funny anymore.   
Replacing all the food in the house with candy because I was getting too thin was funny; waking me up early on my birthday with five boisterous puppies was funny.   
This is not funny. Death is not entertaining; it doesn’t draw laughter from my lips but rather blood from my knuckles as I slam my fist into the floor and beg empty air for your heart to beat again.   
Your hair is a mocking, golden halo, splayed around your head in a circle. I mess my fingers in it and lift your face up, whispering a plethora of pleas and promises against your lips. They don’t taste like you anymore; they don’t taste like the cheeky remarks you used to spill into my mouth on lazy Sunday mornings, and I hate you.   
I hate you for allowing the knife buried in your stomach to hurt me as badly as it did you.   
I hate you.   
I love you.   
I can’t do this without you.


End file.
